


The Wanderess

by Pen99



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aggressive Hawke, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hawke Being an Asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:39:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7107151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pen99/pseuds/Pen99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke is an asshole. Varric loves her anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     Hawke threw open the sticky door of the Hanged Man.

     Her eyes scanned the room, expecting to find Varric at the bar. To Hawke’s surprise, the dwarf was not in sight. Instead, she caught sight of Isabela at a table with a couple of disgruntled patrons. The three of them were wrapped tightly over the table. Their voices were low, and the most haggard looking patron was speaking rapidly in Isabela’s direction. Hawke could not muster up the strength to care. She wasn’t curious about Isabela’s dealings in the slightest.

     Behind the bar, the bartender, Corff, eyed Hawke with his usual exhausted stare. He waved lazily in the direction of the blood soaked dagger clutched in her right hand.  In her opinion, the greeting was not befitting of a “champion”. Perhaps he (and the rest of Kirkwall) could be the least bit grateful.  Filthy dog lords no longer lurked outside his place of business. He should be pleased to see her wiping their remaining fluids into the side of her already stained robes.

     “You’re welcome,” Hawke hissed through her teeth. Behind her, she allowed the door to fall shut.

    Without concealing her daggers (and with an angry “hrmpf” from the bartender) Hawke trudged over to Isabela’s table. Hawke raised her leg and rested the heel of her boot on an open chair. The voices quieted immediately, which left the bar in dead silence. The only other patron (besides those involved in Isabela’s illicit dealings) was drooling in the far corner.   

     The man in the chair to Hawke’s left, a bloody templar by the looks of him, clicked his tongue impatiently. He made no effort to look at the approaching stranger.

     “Piss off, yeah?” He grunted. The templar loosened his jaw and grinned stupidly at his partner. “This aint’ the Rose. I’m not interested in your ugly cun—”

     Hawke rested her dagger on the top of his Adam’s apple.  She shifted her weight forward onto her resting boot.  A small bead of blood collected on the top of Hawke’s blade. Their eyes met. Beside the Templar, the other man sprung to his feet. He reached for his sword, but Hawke was quicker.

     “Get the fuck out.” Hawke grumbled and loosened her grip on the blade. Neither of the men backed down. “Get out, or I kill you.”

   With a shove, Hawke knocked the Templar backwards over his chair. The second man curled his lip and began to lunge.

    “Laurent. No.” The Templar barked from the ground. He righted himself, and rested his palm on his partner’s clavicle.  As they passed, the Templar spat at Hawke’s feet.      

   “Crazy bitch,” the second man muttered as the door slammed at their heels. Hawke briefly considered following them. The bartender had no authority over blood spilt _outside_ his establishment. The only hassle would be dragging the bodies to the nearest dump-site.

      Instead, Hawke took the (now vacant) seat across from Isabela. The pirate’s eyes held fire. Her brown arms were crossed, holding up her breasts. Until now, the pirate had remained silent. Or perhaps she hadn’t. Hawke hadn’t paid attention.

     “Where do you get off, Hawke?” Isabela shouted.  “That was important business. We were arranging a—”

     “Don’t care,” Hawke interrupted and finally retired her daggers to their holsters. “Varric?”     

     “Excuse me?” Isabela looked up at Hawke incredulously.

    “Varric.” Hawke repeated. “Three feet. Chest hair. Lives in this hell hole. Where is he?”

    Isabela narrowed her eyes.

     “It’s the middle of the night.” She snapped. Isabela’s shoulders tightened as she grabbed for (what Hawke assumed was) the Templar’s flask. Her barbed tone was off-putting. Hawke’s upper lip twitched in frustration.

     “I got that. Thanks.” Hawke motioned to the blood (now dry) settled into her robes. 

    “He’s upstairs, asleep.” Isabela grumbled into her pilfered drink. She did not look up. “Where the fuck else?”

    Hawke pushed up from the table. She snatched the flask from between Isabela’s palms and downed the last gulp. When she was done, Hawke threw it back atop the filthy surface. Isabela’s nostrils flared, but she did not challenge Hawke. Pity.

     Hawke turned her back on Isabela and took a single step towards the staircase. There, Varric’s suite (and Varric) would be waiting. 

     “Thanks,” Hawke called over her shoulder. “For the help.”

      “Seriously?” Isabela snorted.  The abrupt scrape of her chair echoed throughout the Hanged Man. Hawke stopped at the bottom of the staircase, and turned towards her irritated companion. Isabela let loose an impatient laugh. “That’s all you wanted? Maker Edyiss, you’re a bitch.”

     Hawke waited stonily for Isabela to run out of steam. When Isabela realized her jest did not faze Hawke, she wove between tables and sauntered towards the entrance of the Hanged Man. As she did so, her bangles jingled pleasantly. Isabela met Hawke’s eyes once more before disappearing into the night of lowtown.

     Hawke grinned to herself as she ascended the staircase. She reasoned the patrons (the ones Hawke assaulted) could not have strayed far from the Hanged Man. If she was to bet, they were currently loitering outside to ambush Hawke. Perhaps Isabela could salvage her— whatever it was. Business partnership? Or better yet, they could have been assassinated by a stray dog lord. Even the Champion of Kirkwall could make a mistake…

     Hawke reached forward to jiggle Varric’s door handle. Locked. Her fingers brushed around the pouches lining her dagger holster. Hawke had in her possession two keys to Varric’s suite. One key, Varric had given to Hawke for her personal use. The other, Hawke had taken off his (very drunk) person. Hawke swore under her breath and tugged at her bangs in frustration. No key.

     Hawke considered picking the lock. That particular skill, however, Hawke did not possess. Picking the lock would take time. She had already wasted enough of her time on Isabela.

    She broke the lock.

     Hawke stood in the archway to Varric’s suite. The room was dim, and Hawke gave her pupils a moment to adjust. The only light in the room came from the flickering candles in the hall. Hawke’s muscular frame cast a shadow onto the far wall. Encompassed in her shadow, true to Isabela’s word, Varric was asleep in his cot. Next to Varric, Bianca rested on the nightstand. Hawke was overcome by the urge to take the crossbow and leave. She restrained herself. Pissing Varric off was not (currently) one of Hawke’s top priorities.  

     Her break-in seemed to rustle Varric from his sleep. His eye cracked open, and, upon seeing the intruder, Varric reached for Bianca.   

      “It’s me.” Hawke snapped, and closed the door behind her with the bottom of her boot. The broken lock caused the door to stick at an awkward angle. “Mus’ta Left the key in my other tunic.”

     With the door (mostly) closed, the room was cast once again into darkness. Varric groaned and fell backwards into his cot. After a moment, the room was illuminated by a single spark. Next to Bianca on the nightstand, Varric’s twisted candle brought the light back to the suite.   

     Hawke had not seen Varric in a number of days. Although his chest was bare, Varric’s golden ring gleamed on his collarbone. Both earrings were also present. Varric looked haggard. Hawke noticed his usual stubble was unruly. Even so, the mischievous gleam was not absent from Varric’s eyes.

     “It’s on your writing desk,” Varric yawned and absentmindedly ran his hand over his chest. He was slouching slightly, his back rested along the wall. He tilted his head. “And you left the spare at Daisy’s.”

     Varric swung his legs over the side of his cot. He sauntered lazily across the room in twice the necessary steps (even for Varric’s height). From his pack, Varric retrieved a package wrapped in muddy cloth.

     “Here,” Varric called and tossed the package to Hawke. “Daisy asked me to get it back to you. She was worried you locked yourself out of ‘Hawke Manor’.” Varric chuckled. It was genuine laughter, too. Hawke failed to suppress a smile. Varric often had this effect on her. “Didn’t realize you’d find your way in, no matter the key. Speaking of—” 

    Varric surveyed the door with a scowl.

     “Andraste’s ass, Edyiss. I almost shot you. You couldn’t have knocked?” Varric barked, although his voice held no bite. Hawke shrugged noncommittally.

     “Don’t flatter yourself. I would have slit your throat before you stroked her trigger.” Hawke snapped. She paused before continuing. “You weren’t downstairs. You’re always fucking downstairs.”  

     Varric avoided her eyes, and sat back down on the cot. This time, he positioned himself on the far side. It was an invitation. Hawke had taken up residence on Varric’s cot before. Most of the time, it was after she had a few drinks and could not make it all the way back to Hightown (in one piece, that is).

     “It’s late.” Varric shrugged and smiled warily at Hawke. His voice was cautious. “I was tired.” 

     Hawke scowled at Varric’s obvious bullshit. Across the room, the two of them locked eyes.  Varric was proffering a challenge.  Hawke was not ready to accept. Not tonight. Instead, she prowled over to the cot and kicked her muddy boots up on the bed. Hawke was hopeful this would piss Varric off. Asshole had it coming, after all. 

      “Really Edyiss?” Varric cried and elbowed Hawke playfully in her side. She ground her jaw in agitation. Hawke had no interest in horseplay. Varric quickly realized his mistake and muttered an apology.  “Where have you been, anyway? You’re filthy.”  

      “Dog Lords.” Hawke answered. She dug her dagger from its holster and began picking the blood from under her nails. “I ran into a few on my way to the Hanged Man.”  

     “And before that?”

     “I was arranging a job.” Hawke said.

      Varric raised his eyebrows skeptically.  

     “No slavers.” Hawke promised and rolled her eyes. Slave-owning bastards were too much of a risk. The last time Hawke ran with slave traders, she left with two fewer gold pieces than agreed upon. Besides (despite her personal feelings about the elf), Fenris was a useful addition to Hawke’s circle. She would like to avoid forcing his hand. “Some Orlesian asshole needed assurance his shipment would arrive without interception from the Guard. Nothing too dangerous. I checked.”

     “I’m guessing Red won’t be happy?” Varric asked and exhaled a shallow breath.

     “No. She won’t be.” Hawke agreed. She paused her digging to smirk at Varric. “I slipped a gold coin into Donnic’s tunic before he returned from patrol. I figured it would be enough.”

     Hawke brushed the remaining blood flakes off her thigh and onto Varric’s cot. He scoffed, but did not complain about Hawke’s disregard for his belongings. She holstered her dagger in disappointment. It had proven worthless (in this battle).

     “I’m surprised, Hawke. You? Playing nice!?” Varric admitted. “Last I saw, she had you pinned to the floor of the barracks. Not that you didn’t deserve it.”  Varric frowned. His eyes lingered on the purple splotch cupping her left eye. It hurt like hell. She didn’t need to be reminded. “This isn’t your first black eye, Hawke.”

     His lips were parted and there was absentness to his gaze. Without warning, Varric tangled his fingers into Hawke’s chalk-white bangs. His thumb traced the heavily scarred hairline that encompassed her temple. Hawke made a fist around his wrist and tugged downward (asshole hadn't asked). When he didn’t offer an apology, Hawke pulled her upper lip into a snarl.

     “Aveline and I have reached an understanding.” Hawke spat and scowled at Varric. “My outside dealings are not your concern.”

     At her words, Varric flinched slightly. He failed to mask the momentary “hurt” that flashed across his features.

    Hawke refused to speak while Varric composed himself. As it was, Hawke suspected Varric was seconds away from expelling her from the Hanged Man. Isabela would be pleased. She had won. There was no use tainting her victory with misconstrued language or expulsion. As a result, the two of them sat in silence for several minutes.

      Finally, Varric reached over the far side of the cot and pulled up his boots. He took his time, unlacing his previous work and re-lacing each boot individually. When he was finished, he stood up from the cot and removed Bianca from her place atop the nightstand.

     “Why does she always make this so difficult?” Varric said to Bianca. The crossbow did not respond. “Alright, Hawke. You don’t want to talk. That’s fine. Why are you here?”      

      Hawke appreciated Varric’s attempt at straightforwardness. Hawke found that brevity was difficult for the dwarf.

     “I’m going to rob the Harimann Estate.” Hawke deadpanned. “I thought you might be interested.”   

      Varric tried (but failed) to suppress his grin.

      “You better hope the loot is good.” Varric grumbled. He was halfway across the threshold before he shouted back at her. “You owe me a door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive my Hawke, she's an asshole to everybody (not just Isabela). 0_0  
> I'm planning on 3 chapters, so I hope you can hang in there for a little while. I'm a slow updater. I'd love to hear from all of you in the comments (good or bad)! Thank you so much for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

      Hawke wished (as she often did) that Varric would stop talking. She almost had it. His idle chatter was throwing her off.

     “Hawke, this is foolish. Just let me—”

     Hawke ignored Varric’s warning and charged. Her shoulder connected with the wooden door, and she was thrown sideways. Hawke narrowly avoided colliding with the nearest wall. Instead, she tripped over the stairs and landed on her ass. Somewhere behind her, Varric snorted. Hawke swore at him under her breath.

     The Harimann Estate was proving to be less penetrable than Varric’s suite at the Hanged Man. The damn door wouldn’t budge.

     Hawke tried twice more. By the end of her third charge, her shoulder was pulsing in pain. Hawke hated to see Varric this smug. It was time for a new approach

     Hawke reached into the left pocket of her robes. She removed a small package encased in tattered red cloth. Hawke pealed back the wrappings to reveal a small set of lock picks. Hawke had won this particular set off Varric in a game of Wicked Grace. There were only three picks in the set, but Hawke considered their acquisition to be a great victory. Hawke had little patience when it came to Wicked Grace. She was quick to anger and (according to Varric) a “poor sport”.

      Her spoils were well won.

     Hawke held up the picks, and waved them lazily over her shoulder. Hightown was dark at this hour, and Hawke wanted to ensure Varric got a proper glimpse. She hoped Varric would be reminded of her earlier victory. It was a comforting thought.

     Hawke pressed firmly against the door. To her slight annoyance, Hawke realized Varric was hovering over her shoulder. He muttered (what Hawke assumed were) words of encouragement, but might well be patronizing jests. Hawke tuned him out. After three minutes of unsuccessful labor, Hawke threw the pick to the ground. She removed the tension wrench from the keyhole, and re-adjusted her stance.

      She tried the second pick. Nothing.

     “Insufficient skill?” Varric asked and placed a hand on Hawke’s (probably bruised) shoulder. She looked down at him. The corners of his mouth were pulled up into a stupid slack-jawed grin. “It’s alright Hawke, you did your best. Lock picking isn’t your forte. Perhaps you could do something more suited to your skill set. I know! You could try smashing the window.”

     “Asshole.” Hawke grumbled and swatted Varric’s hand off her shoulder.

      “Self-proclaimed.” Varric grinned.

     She wandered over to the nearest window and pressed her fingertips against the glass. As Hawke moved her palm downward, little streaks formed along the foggy surface.    

     Below the windowsill, Hawke noticed a loose chunk of cobblestone. It looked as though no one had bothered to mortar it back into place. Hawke wrapped her gloved fingers around the stone and tugged. It sprung free without protest. Hawke eyed the thin windows surrounding the door to the estate. The windows were far too skinny for Varric or Hawke to slip through. Pity. Hawke would have liked to see the look of indignation on Varric’s face. Hawke debated smashing the window anyway.

      “Hawke! What are you doing?” Varric asked. “Andraste’s ass, I was only joking. Just, give them here. Please.”  

     Varric outstretched his palm expectantly. In annoyance, Hawke dropped the cobblestone into his palm. He cast it aside with a scowl.

     “Oh… for the Maker’s sake.” Varric reached forward and tugged the lock picks from her grasp. He squatted down next to the door. Within a matter of seconds, the lock clicked. “There. You should have let me do that in the first place.”

     Hawke brushed past him without comment. The estate was dark; the moon was the only source of light. After her eyes adjusted, Hawke scanned the room. There were no candles, and the fireplace was empty. Upon closer inspection, a fistful of ash was scattered across the hearth. It was eerie. The ash in Hawke’s own fireplace was filthy and overflowing. Bodahn said it reminded him of a mineshaft. Hawke hated it. Now, Bodahn and Sandal were long gone. She ought to have it emptied.

      Varric followed Hawke into the foyer. He pulled Bianca from her home on his back. His footing was painfully slow, as if the darkness caught him off guard. Hawke snorted in amusement (wasn’t he supposed to be a dwarf?). He quickly fell out of step with Hawke. Despite his caution, Hawke strode forward without her weapons. There was no need.

      The estate had been empty for well over a year. Hawke had met (and killed) Lord Harimann a half decade ago. She could not recall the reason for his preemptive death. Some mercenary had paid her three gold pieces. Perhaps she hadn’t asked.

     Lord Harimann’s remaining relatives (his daughter and her next of kin) perished recently. Unlike Lord Harimann, these lives were not taken by Hawke’s hand. Aveline and her guardsmen investigated their disappearance. After a quick scope of the premises, all four of the remaining Harimann legacy were proclaimed dead. Had Aveline said something about Blood Magic? Demons?

     Hawke had accused Merrill (or was it Anders?) of…something. Varric had called her response petulant. She didn’t speak to him for a week after that.

     “What is it we’re doing here, Hawke?” Varric asked. He lowered Bianca, and examined the desolate walls of the estate. “This place was reclaimed by the city of Kirkwall.”

     Ah. So Varric remembered.

      “And yet you agreed to come.” Hawke said.  

      “That I did. At your request, might I add.”  Varric said.  He re-slung Bianca over his shoulder and hobbled over to the staircase. The two of them trudged up the stairs. Hawke (who was far quicker than the dwarf) beat Varric to the top. From below, Varric called to her. “We might as well see what the Viscount left behind.” 

     Hawke knocked open the nearest door to reveal a junkyard of abandoned goods. The hallway was littered with broken portraits and trinkets of no value. Upon first glance, Hawke saw the leg of a table, a pair of mustard yellow curtains, and a portrait of Lord Harimann himself. It was quite the contrast to the barren foyer. When Varric caught up, he swore under his breath. They were going to be a while.

     Hawke did not pay attention to the passing time. It was nearly dawn before something of value caught her eye. At first, Hawke thought it was a dirty bottle. She puckered her lips and spit on the glass. Varric (who was examining a plate with possible gold rimming) furrowed his brow at the display. Hawke used the cusp of her sleeve to clear the grime off the surface. When she was finished, Hawke had a figurine clutched in her grasp. It was in the likeness of a small boat. An uncomfortable laugh escaped Hawke’s lips. Of fucking course.

     “Do you think Isabela would want this?” Hawke asked and dangled the neck of the bottle between her fingers. It swung between her knuckles like a pendulum “I vaguely recall something about her wanting a ship.”

     From the beginning, Isabela and Hawke had squabbled over nonsense. For that, Hawke held herself mostly accountable. She enjoyed pushing Isabela to the limits. Their spat from earlier was a perfect example. That did not mean, however, that there wasn’t originally understanding between them.

     It was only a few months ago when Isabela and Hawke’s relationship became downright hostile. Hawke had ordered her ensemble to kill a slave trader by the name of Castillon. Varric and Fenris wouldn’t have approved if Castillon had walked away with his life. Even so, that is not what motivated Hawke to make the decision. If Hawke let Isabela get her hands on Castillon’s ship, Hawke was certain Isabela would never return.

      If asked, she would deny it. But Hawke was worried she’d lose Isabela.  

     “Vaguely?” Varric snorted. “Maker, Hawke. Don’t let her hear you say that. I don’t fancy having to pry Isabela’s fingers from your throat.”

      “I would imagine not. It would be quite the reach, dwarf.” Hawke said and held it down to Varric’s eye level. “You didn’t answer the question.”    

      “It’s a perfect replica of an Antivan frigate.” Varric said and eyed the ship warily. “Coming from anyone else, she’d love it.”

     “Is that supposed to mean something?” Hawke asked.

     “No.” Varric sighed and relaxed his gaze. “I suppose not.  You’re giving gifts, now?”

     “It’s not a gift.” Hawke said and removed the lock picking kit from her robes. She shook the picks and tension wrench loose into her pocket. Hawke used the remaining cloth to safely wrap the ship. After she was finished, she returned the cloth and the ship to a pouch below her dagger holster. “It’s compensation.”

     “Compensation? Fuck, Hawke. What have you done?” Varric asked. He took a moment, and then reconsidered. “Oh, never mind! It’s better that I don’t know. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.”

     The two of them went back to their treasure hunting. The room was silent for a long while. Hawke had already examined three pairs of (ultimately worthless) shoes before Varric spoke again. He started his thought with a few sparsely placed “hmm’s”.

      “I didn’t know you bothered with ‘compensation’.” Varric said. “ What about your favorite dwarf? I could use a new set of lock picks. The Champion of Kirkwall cheated me out of my best set.”

     Hawke froze in place. Her jaw tightened and her shoulders hunched. Varric, who was getting quite good at Hawke body language, leaned away from her. Whether involuntary or not, Hawke was unsure. Bastard knew what was coming.   

     “Isabela makes her unhappiness known.” Hawke said, and ground her teeth. “As do the others. Aveline. Fenris. Anders never shuts up about it, actually.  It’s holier-than-thou bullshit, if you ask me. I never asked any of them to follow me around.  I think he sleeps better at night knowing he’s fought me at every turn. They all do.” Hawke raised her eyebrows in challenge. “I was unaware the feelings you harbor are mutual.”

     Varric pinched the bridge of his nose.

      “Hawke. That’s not what I meant.” Varric said, and slumped his shoulders. “It was joking. We do that, you and I. Less frequently than I’d like… but you never had much of a sense for humor.”

     He tried to catch Hawke’s eye, but she refused.

     Hawke had gambled against Varric for several years. She knows him well enough to tell when he is about to forfeit the round (Hawke was unsure she’d ever win, otherwise). Varric was looking to make amends, but Hawke wasn’t about to let him back down. They had been rearing for a proper fight ever since Hawke knocked down his suite door. Perhaps, even before that.

          “I had no idea my presence was such a burden.” Hawke said. She held herself at full height, purposefully looming over Varric. Her words were calculated, and spoken through her clenched teeth. “I should visit Merrill. I yelled at her last week. Poor thing; she must be terrified. Otherwise, she would have spoken up. Perhaps she’s just too stupid… I sometimes wonder if she understands that I’m insulting her. I should get her an elfy trinket, just in case.”

     “That’s not fair, and you know it.” Varric said. He was nearly shouting. Good. He’d taken the bait.  “Daisy hasn’t done a damn thing wrong. Could you leave her the fuck alone? Just this once, Hawke. ”

     “I don’t know Varric.” Hawke spat. “Blood magic and demon mirrors…tsk tsk.  It seems our Merrill isn’t the maid in white you make her out to be.”

      “You’re a blood mage!” Varric scoffed.

       “And you’re a poor shot.”

      “At least I’m not the most self-righteous mage in Kirkwall!” Varric was in fight mode. He took two large strides forward. To avoid an invasion of her personal space, Hawke was forced to back into the nearest wall. Hawke had to give it to Varric. Even without height, he managed to be intimidating. “Isabela might be stubborn, but at least she’s willing to admit when she’s wrong. Here’s a hint, Hawke. If you actually listened to them…gave a damn about their feelings, perhaps they wouldn’t complain so much. ”

     “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience. Tell me Varric, how’s Bartrand these days?”

      “I don’t know, Hawke. How’s Carver?”

      Hawke winced. It was a low blow, on both their parts.

      “Wouldn’t know. Doesn’t write much. Grey Wardens get busy, you see. You understand. When’s the last time you heard from Bianca?”

      Varric inhaled sharply. Hawke felt a wave of pride. She was winning.

“She stopped by the Hanged Man about a month ago. Or so Isabela told me. I don’t know, I wasn’t there.” Varric said. “Leandra had just died. You needed— I had somewhere else to be.”

       Oh.    

      Oh, shit. It had been two months. They didn’t talk about… that.

     Hawke was paralyzed.

     She remembered that night. Neither of them had said a word. They sat, back to back, in front of her fireplace. Neither Hawke nor Varric had bothered to light it. It was fucking freezing. At dawn, Varric had stood and left the Amell estate. He had told Hawke to ‘get some rest’. Hawke ignored his request and followed him. She had nowhere else to be. No one left to be there for.

     Together, they killed nearly fifty men that day. Neither of them bothered with cleanup; bodies were left behind like breadcrumbs. Unfortunately, Aveline and the city guard did not follow her corpse trail. One less fight, Hawke supposed. Not that she was particularly eager to brawl with Aveline (especially not after her black eye). It had been a strange day.

      The strangest part of it, however, was Varric. When Bartrand died, the fucker wouldn’t shut up about it. It had been “remember when my bastard brother…” this and “fuck Bartrand” that. It was nearly a week before Hawke lost it. The look on the dwarf’s face was a punch in the gut.  Since her blowup, Varric hasn’t mentioned his brother. That hadn’t been her intention. At the time, it had been a bit much.

      This time, Varric refused to speak. It was like he was waiting for Hawke to react. He waited all night. The entire day. The week after. The month after. Even now. Hawke knew she still hadn’t. Not really. It was Varric’s own problem. She wasn’t about to put on a show for his benefit.

     Oh. Varric was still speaking.

      “So, yeah.” Varric sighed. He rubbed his palms awkwardly and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes were scanning the room. Looking anywhere, but where Hawke was standing. “The sun is about to come up. If you don’t fancy walking out of here in front of Hightown and the city guard, I suggest we head out…I’m sure they’ll let you pass just fine, Champion. But Aveline will have my head. She’s been eager to keep me locked up overnight. Said I’d just might learn a lesson.” Varric paused. He seemed to have realized she was out of sorts. “Hawke?”

     “Wouldn’t be my problem.” Hawke replied automatically. Despite her words, she turned towards the staircase. Hawke raised an eyebrow. “Coming?”

      Varric squatted down and picked up an object resting near his foot. Upon further inspection, Hawke discovered it was one of her lock picks. Damn thing must have fallen in the chaos. Varric got back to his feet (not that it made much of a difference) and slipped the pick back into Hawke’s pocket as he passed.

       “I thought,” Varric said and smirked. “That you ‘never asked’ any of us to follow you around. That sounded like asking, to me…”

      “At least you’re right about one thing, Varric.” Hawke said and made a beeline for the front door of the estate.

      “And what’s that?”

      “You and I have a very different opinion on what constitutes as funny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I did warn you; I'm hella slow at updating. Once again, thank you for reading!! I would really love any comment you are willing to throw my way.
> 
> Also, I looked at the aggressive Hawke tag. There isn't nearly enough aggressive Hawke! Talented writers, please get on this untapped resource.


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